The rain hadn't let up all morning—just enough to blur the skyline, soften neon signs, and cast the office floor in a muted reflection of gray-blue light. From his seat on the 18th floor, Minjae watched the droplets race each other down the glass. They moved with strange purpose, as if tracing invisible paths across a world too busy to notice they were there. Almost like him. He blinked once, refocusing on the report lighting up his screen.
"Client revisions just came in," Yuri said as she approached, a folder balanced on her arm. She stopped at the corner of his desk but didn't sit, her eyes scanning his monitor. "The schedule's still tight. Want me to handle the first draft?"
He glanced at the list. "Let's review it together. You'll see something I miss."
She raised a brow—not mocking, but curious. "I thought you were the one who sees everything."
"Not everything," he said quietly. "Some things need two points of view."
Yuri's lips curved just slightly, that small smile she rarely wore unless she actually meant it. She leaned closer, posture relaxed, attention sharp. Her voice stayed professional as they discussed revisions, but her presence lingered like an intentional tether—steady, calming, grounding in ways she probably didn't realize.
And while she spoke, Minjae found himself drifting into that mental gray space he often occupied: analyzing, interpreting, quietly predicting the trajectories of things no one else observed. He wasn't trying to. It was simply a reflex—one that had kept him alive through lifetimes, even if no one in this building knew what he once was.
By the time lunchtime approached, the office hum had shifted. Rumors had circulated about another team merger, and people were already speculating—whispering in hallways, messaging in private group chats, making assumptions based on nothing but instinct. Anxiety spread faster than factual updates ever could.
Seori crossed his line of sight with a purposeful stride, balancing two cups of coffee in one hand while tapping out a message on her phone with the other. She set one on his desk with a soft thud.
"I'm bribing you with coffee," she said, her voice carrying that half-exasperated warmth she reserved for him. "You look like you've been in your head all morning."
He accepted it, inhaling the faint scent of roasted beans. "Thanks."
"Take care of yourself," she said, tilting her head. "I know your mind isn't just here."
He looked up at her, caught off guard—not by the words, but by the certainty in her tone. She wasn't guessing. She wasn't accusing. She simply knew, on some level, that Minjae carried invisible weights.
"It's nothing urgent," he said.
"Not the point," she replied. Then, gentler, "Just don't vanish again. Okay?"
Her phrasing hit something soft—something human. He swallowed lightly.
"I won't."
Satisfied, she nodded and stepped away, already intercepting someone else calling her name in the hallway.
For a moment, he watched her leave. The sound of the office returned around him—the clatter of keyboards, the low murmur of conversations, the subtle tension humming beneath the workday.
He returned to his screen, but his mind remained split, pulled toward the one place where questions left no room for distraction.
---
That evening, the lab welcomed him like a secret held under breath.
He stepped inside without turning on the main lights. He didn't need brightness to navigate; he knew the layout down to each wire, each cold metal surface, each faint scent of ink and stone. The polished floor reflected dim outlines of equipment—modern tools arranged around a single ancient-inspired centerpiece.
The slate slab.
The runes carved into it appeared silent, unlit, almost unremarkable if one didn't know the truth behind their design. A blend of dragon sigils, mathematical structures, and modern notations—an impossible fusion no human would think to attempt.
Minjae approached with nothing but a notebook and a portable spectrometer. Tonight, he didn't want activation. He didn't want sparks. He simply wanted understanding.
He sat down, flipping through the accumulated pages, filled with formulas, diagrams, and personal reflections that straddled the line between scientist and something far older.
The one confirmed activation—weeks ago now—happened under a condition he still couldn't replicate. He'd tried every measurable variable: temperature, humidity, pulse rate, mental focus patterns. None recreated the ignition.
He scribbled in the margin:
> "Maybe will isn't commanded. Maybe it's remembered."
He tapped his pen, letting the thought settle.
Dragons didn't cast through force alone. They cast through being—an alignment of instinct, will, and essence. Humans didn't have that alignment. But he wasn't fully human. Not anymore. Not entirely. His human life was dominant—his memories, his habits, his rationality—but somewhere beneath those layers…
Valmyros still breathed.
Or maybe he didn't. Maybe Minjae had buried him too deeply to hear the echoes.
He set the notebook down. Closed his eyes. Let the rain's distant rhythm guide his breathing.
Still nothing happened.
He didn't try again.
The room hummed softly as machines monitored micro-shifts in energy—none of which belonged to magic, but all of which reminded him what it felt like to chase the edge of something impossible.
He stayed until long after midnight, leaving with no breakthroughs—just a lingering sense of almost.
---
The next morning, the rain had stopped but left the air thick with residual cold. The city looked freshly washed, as if someone had drawn back the sky and replaced it with a gentler version.
Minjae arrived earlier than usual, drawn by habit more than necessity. He'd barely opened his laptop before Yura appeared with two printed reports and a scowl sharp enough to cut through the morning haze.
"Tell me you didn't stay past midnight again," she said, thrusting the papers at him.
He blinked, hesitating. "Not past. Just until."
She clicked her tongue with exaggerated disapproval. "I'm deducting that from your vacation days."
He allowed himself a faint smirk. "You don't have that authority."
"I know people," she shot back without missing a beat. But the humor faded quickly, replaced by quiet concern. "Seriously, Minjae. You look wired. And not the good kind."
He looked down at the reports. "Just trying to understand something… that doesn't want to be understood."
Her expression softened. She didn't ask what it was. She didn't need to. She simply nodded and walked away, mumbling loud enough for him to hear:
"You're not alone, Minjae."
He watched her go, letting the words sit with him. Unexpected. Unnecessary. And yet—comforting. Another thread weaving itself into the fabric of this human life he was still learning to inhabit.
---
Night came quietly.
He returned to the lab with no expectations. No rituals. No calculations. Just him—Minjae, not Valmyros—sitting before the carved rune like someone speaking to a memory instead of a relic.
He placed his hand over the center glyph. Not commanding. Not summoning. Not demanding.
Just… present.
"Aethra," he whispered, but even the word felt softer this time. Less an invocation, more a greeting.
Nothing lit. Nothing flared. The room remained in its dim serenity.
But beneath his palm—
A flicker.
A pulse that wasn't heat or light, but something far quieter. A faint brush of awareness—like a breath against the skin of his thoughts, almost shy in its presence.
It was gone in an instant. A ghost of sensation.
He opened his eyes slowly. The rune remained unchanged. Silent, inert.
But his hand trembled.
He reached for his notebook, writing quickly:
> "Contact. Brief. Instinctive. Failed to replicate."
> "Not magic. Not energy. Not memory. Something before those."
> "Life force, yes. But not mine alone."
He stared at those last words, heart steady but mind racing. If it wasn't his alone… then whose? Or what?
No answer came.
But the silence felt full, not empty—as if the world around him was holding its breath.
---
When Minjae finally left the lab, the city above was awake again. Streetlights flickered over rain-damp concrete. People moved with their usual hurried purpose. Cars flowed like veins of light across the sleeping grid.
Nothing looked different.
But something was.
He could feel it—not with magic, but with something far simpler.
Recognition. The sense of a door beginning to unlock. Not with brilliance or noise, but with the gentlest push of presence.
Whatever ancient force he touched—
It was awakening.
And it remembered him first.